


The Day Before

by illwick



Series: In Between [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Anal Sex, Angst, First Time, Fix-It, M/M, Oral Sex, Season/Series 03, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-14 10:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5740630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set the day before the events of "His Last Vow" begin, Sherlock and John are forced to separately confront the shared history that binds them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I. Greg

Greg is surprised when John's name shows up on his caller ID. He knew the Watsons had returned from their honeymoon a few days ago, but John wasn't usually one to initiate conversation. He rather assumed he'd just see him again next time he called Sherlock in on a case.

"Oi, John! Welcome back!"

"Cheers, Greg."

"Have a nice honeymoon, then?"

"Lovely, ta. Listen, I was wondering--have you heard from Sherlock lately? Do you have him working a case?"

"No, things have been pretty quiet at the Yard these days. Nothing we can't handle on our own."

"Right, right." There's a pregnant pause. "Listen, he's...he's not returning my calls or texts. He disappeared the night of the wedding, I didn't even see him to say goodbye before we left on the honeymoon. And I realize it's not my place to worry about him...anymore...but...I can't help but wonder..."

"You think he might be using?" Greg hates how quickly his mind jumps to that conclusion, but having known Sherlock back in his junkie days, he's prone to anticipating the the worst-case scenario.

"Dunno, really. Maybe. Or he's caught up in some ridiculously dangerous case and isn't using good judgement. Or most likely, he's holed up doing some gruesome experiment and can't be arsed to check his phone."

"Right, right."

Another pause. Finally, John continues, rambling a bit. "Look, I hate to ask, but would mind checking on him? I'd do it myself, but things between us are a bit...I just...I don't want to bother him if he doesn't want me around. But I figure he might take a visit from you, especially if he's bored. Have you got any cold cases or anything you could drop off? And just check on him?"

Ah. It all makes sense now. "Sure thing, mate. I've got a few lying around, can use those as an excuse to drop by, just make sure he's alright."

"Cheers, Greg. I owe you a pint."

"No worries. If anything, it'll clear some paperwork off my desk. I'll let you know how he is."

"Ta, Greg."

Rush hour finds him disembarking the Tube at the Baker Street station, a manila envelope stuffed with three case files in his hand. He tried texting in advance, but as John had predicted, he'd received no response.

He knocks on the door to 221, and luckily, Mrs. Hudson is home. She bustles him upstairs and raps on Sherlock's door.

"Sherlock, yoohoo! It's the Detective Inspector to see you!"

"I'm busy, Mrs. Hudson. Tell him to go away."

Mrs. Hudson is undeterred. "Tell him yourself! I walked all the way up the stairs with my bad hip to bring him up here, the least you can do is let him in."

"FINE."

The door springs open and Sherlock is there, hair wild, dressing gown open, to reveal he is still wearing his pajamas despite the late hour.

"What do you want?" Sherlock's tone is biting.

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I'll take it from here." Greg turns to Sherlock. "May I come in?"

Sherlock's eyes narrow. It doesn't take a genius to note his dilated pupils. High as a kite. _Shit_.

"Fine. This better be important." He lets the door swing open and Greg follows him inside.

The sitting room looks much like it always did, though slightly messier in John's absence. The kitchen is considerably worse off, with a staggering array of beakers and petri dishes surrounding a single microscope. Sherlock marches over to the stool in front of it and reverts his eyes back to the microscope's glow.

"What do you want, Geoff. I'm extremely busy."

"I can see that," Greg responds. "What are you working on?"

"As if you care." Sherlock's tone is curt. Greg doesn't dignify him with a response, and elects to simply wait him out. Years of dealing with Sherlock's snits have trained him well.

A pause. "If you must know, I'm doing an elaborate series of experiments on soil composition. Groundbreaking stuff. You wouldn't understand."

"If it's half as asinine as your tobacco ash analysis, no, I won't."

"Scoff all you will, but I'd like to remind you for the record that I solved not ONE but TWO of your cases based on the results of those ash experiments, and doubtless dozens of others have been solved thanks to my online database."

"Doubtless."

"So I'm asking again: What do you want. I doubt you came all the way over here to ask how my experiment is going, and we're not friends, so this is clearly not a social call. So what. Do. You. Want." He punctuates each consonant with exaggerated clarity, as he always does immediately before a tirade. Greg catches the sign, and knows he has limited time to speak his piece before Sherlock blows up at him once and for all.

"Here for a favor, actually." 

Sherlock raises his eyes from his microscope and cocks his eyebrow. "A favor? For you? Why should I?"

"No reason at all, except I'm really up a creek here. Ever since you...left, our numbers have been way down, and the boss isn't happy about it. You really threw off our stats, you know. So I've got a couple cold cases here--easy stuff, really, you could solve it in your sleep--but it would really help me out if you could just bang these out. Keep my head above water for another week or two at least."

Sherlock goes back to his microscope. "Not interested."

"Listen, Sherlock, I'm begging you. You've got to help me out. If our stats don't improve, I may be looking at a demotion. And that means fewer high-level cases for you."

It's pandering, he knows. But he's desperate. He's got to get Sherlock to agree to something tangible, so he has an excuse to follow up with him again.

"Fine. Leave them on the table. I'll see if I can get to them. But don't get your hopes up."

"Cheers." Greg tosses them on the coffee table.

He pauses. There are so many things he wants to ask--When did you fall off the wagon? What happened with John? Why didn't you reach out? How could you do this to yourself again?--but he knows he won't get the answers he needs. All he can do is look for some excuse--any excuse--to come back and check on him again.

Desperate, he reaches for the bookshelf to his right, and grabs the first book his hand lands on.

"Mind if I borrow this?" He looks at the cover. _A to Z London Street Atlas_. Great.

"Why?" Sherlock is curious now. He can see right through him, Greg is sure.

"Eh, my cousin's coming into town from York this weekend. Thought I could loan it to her. Never got a copy, myself."

"Isn't that what smartphones are for?"

"She's a total luddite. I'll return it on Monday, I promise."

Sherlock shrugs and goes back to his microscope. "Suit yourself."

"Cheers, mate. So, I'll...see you Monday, then? And you'll let me know about the cold cases?"

He gets a grunt in return.

Back out on the street, Greg swears quietly to himself. He should call Mycroft, he knows. Mycroft could stage an intervention, get Sherlock back on the straight and narrow-- or if not, if it was truly bad, could get him into rehab again. Greg hadn't been able to deduce from their short interaction how grave the situation was, whether Sherlock had simply taken up recreational use or if he was headed for a full-blown bender. Mycroft would know on sight.

Shit.

He's at the entrance of the tube station. He'll call Mycroft once he gets back above ground, he reasons.

The crowds have thinned out since rush hour, and Greg is able to find a seat with ease. For lack of something better to do, he flips through the worn copy of the _A to Z London Street Atlas_.

The book falls open to the D's. Tucked within the pages is a polaroid photograph. And Greg's heart stops.

He recognizes the origin of the photograph with ease. Three years ago (Christ, had it really been that long?), he'd worked a kidnapping case in which the kidnapper had sent his ransom notes written on the back of polaroid photos of his victims. Greg had been at a loss, and called in Sherlock for assistance. Sherlock had listened to the details, taken one of the photographs in hand, and strolled out of the Yard without another word. John had shrugged apologetically, and run out after him.

Greg didn't hear from them the next day. Or the day after that. But on the third day, his mobile chirped.

Case solved. Come to 221B at once. -SH

Walking into the flat, Greg gasped. Nearly every conceivable surface was covered with hundreds of polaroid photographs, each of a varying hue. Sherlock stormed in from the kitchen, and triumphantly slapped a photograph down on the coffee table.

"Magnesium!" He declared.

"...Come again?"

"Magnesium, George, do keep up! I noticed that the polaroid photographs sent by the kidnapper all had a slightly purple hue. As it turns out, this hue is caused by high levels of magnesium in the air during development. Now, many types of factories can produce magnesium dust, but only one has received multiple environmental hazard citations in the last two years, and it's located in an industrial complex in Leavesden. The level of toxicity to produce this particular hue of purple must be extremely high--so it's my guess that the perpetrator is keeping his victims within a 2-block radius of the factory. Should narrow your search considerably."

He had been right. He was always right.

The photograph that Greg is staring at now, three years and seemly a lifetime later, has the slight purplish hue that Sherlock had worked to replicate during his experiment for the case. But it is the content of the photograph that shocks him.

It is a photo of John. And Sherlock. In bed. Together. 

John was taking the picture, lying on his back and extending his arm, smiling impishly up at the camera. His face looked so young, and his eyes sparkled in a way that Greg hardly remembers they ever had before. He was shirtless, and his hardy skin seemed to glow with vigor. 

Sherlock was shirtless as well, curled up on his side facing John, his long arm flung across John's bare chest. His pale alabaster skin set a sharp contrast to John's ruddier tone. His hair was wild, and he was smiling. But what stuns Greg most are his eyes. He was staring up at John Watson with a look that could only be described as _adoration_. Greg has never seen that look on Sherlock's face before. He had never looked so alive.

Greg tries to remember how to breathe. It had been true, then. It had all been true.

There had always been rumors, of course. Giggles around the water cooler at the Yard, the occasional homophobic slur hurled Sherlock's way when he pushed one of the officers over the edge (Greg made it clear that language wasn't tolerated on his team), and the usual friendly jabs on a night out at the pub.

But John Watson was straight, he made that clear. And so when Sherlock died, Greg refused to treat John as the grieving widower. "They were just friends," he reminded himself, even as he avoided John at the funeral. "Just friends," he'd mentally repeat, every time he thought perhaps he should call, but talked himself out of it. "Friends," he insisted, as he finally punched John's number into his phone months later, to ask if he could drop off a box of Sherlock's belongings.

The guilt had been maddening. If he had only believed in Sherlock, if he had only stood by him, put the full force of the Yard in his corner, maybe he wouldn't have jumped. Maybe he wouldn't have been so vulnerable. Maybe he wouldn't have broken. But those were the thoughts that Greg could not allow himself to think. And he certainly could not let himself think that he had ruined John Watson as well.

But then! Miracle of miracles, Sherlock Holmes had returned, triumphant. And everyone got their happy ending: John got his beautiful wife, his house in the suburbs, and his best friend back. Sherlock got to solve crimes and run about town with his partner. And Greg got to fall asleep at night without the extra tumbler of whiskey to push him over the edge.

But now, here in front of him, in lilac-hued technicolor, is proof that this was not a happy ending. John Watson now lives with his wife in suburbs, and Sherlock Holmes is alone in his empty flat on Baker Street analyzing soil samples and shooting up. And Greg is trying not to think about how Sherlock must have felt three weeks ago, standing beside his former lover and giving a speech at his wedding. 

Jesus. No wonder he'd needed a hit.

With a jolt, Greg realizes he's at his stop. He slams the book shut and squeezes out through the closing doors, jogs up the stairs to the bustling street, and pulls his mobile from his pocket.

He should call Mycroft. But then he thinks of the photograph; of Sherlock and John, frozen together in a simpler time, before everything had turned into a monumental fuck-up. And he feels a rising tide of pity--or is it sorrow?-- that he can't push back.

He'll wait until Monday, he resolves. He'll call Mycroft on Monday, after he has more information. Perhaps Sherlock will be feeling better by then. Clutching the book tightly in his hand, he walks off down the busy street.

Yes. He could wait until Monday.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps Sherlock was not fully honest when he claimed it was for a case.

II. Sherlock 

Sherlock Holmes is high. Well, not _high_ high, but he's higher than he is not-high, and he supposes that's high enough to count.

The first week after the wedding had been dreadful. Dull, boring, and utterly pointless. For lack of something better to do, he'd circled back around to the Magnussen case, but that was a long-con. Nothing he could press forward on at the moment. He'd put it on the back burner. At a loss, he'd taken on a soil sample project that he'd been putting off for a while, but it was a poor substitute for the Work.

And John. As much as he hated to admit it, the real problem in all of this was John, _John, JOHN_. Unlike previous scientific studies he had taken on, his soil analysis failed to captivate his mind, which appeared intent on wandering stubbornly back into the John Watson wing of his Mind Palace every opportunity it got. And if he wasn't roaming the rooms of his Mind Palace, he was constantly beleaguered with questions about John that popped out of his subconscious seemingly at random. What is John doing this moment? Is he enjoying his sex holiday? Are he and lovely Mary sipping wine at the seaside? Does the seaside remind John of that week they'd spent in Cornwall once, the time Sherlock had gotten so sunburned he refused to go outside and made John bring him pasties from the corner bakery to eat in the cool comfort of their cottage (and NO, John, it was not because of his vanity. It was simply practical to avoid the sun in such a state!). Is John thinking of Sherlock at all?

This pedestrian line of thinking simply would not do. He needed a jump start, something to help him _focus_ , something to bring him back round to his old levels of productivity.

He'd remembered his dealer's number without even accessing his Palace.

The cocaine had been just the trick he needed. One hit of his perfect 7% solution, and he was back in business. God, why Mycroft frowned on this stuff was entirely beyond him indeed.

But now the soil analysis project was winding down. Thanks to several days of uninterrupted productivity (save Greg's annoying imposition this evening), he's close to having his results. He simply needs to do one last analysis of the data, and he can begin to write up his conclusions. Groundbreaking stuff, indeed.

However...the write-up could wait until tomorrow, could it not? He calculates the odds of a case occurring in the next 12 hours that could be directly solved by his analysis at approximately 1/10000000, so it seems safe to put off the write-up for now. And perhaps just enjoy a few moments alone.

He pulls out the small black case he'd stowed between his couch cushions. He removes the vial inside--just enough for one hit left. Perfect.

Moments later, he is standing at the gates of his Mind Palace. A deep breath, and he walks inside.

John Watson would not be surprised to learn that he has a room in Sherlock's Mind Palace. What would perhaps surprise him, Sherlock muses, is that John Watson has an entire wing.

At the entrance to the wing is the John Watson Home Office. The drab space contains filing cabinets full of dull, unimportant information: John's phone number, his schedule at the surgery, his sister's address. Birthday, how he takes his coffee, and a running tally on how many jumpers he owns (and how they correlate to his moods). Exceedingly boring, yes, but also exceedingly necessary, Sherlock discovered, if he wished to keep John Watson in his life.

Across the hall is the John Watson Trophy Room. This is one of his favorite rooms in his entire Palace. It is his altar to the glory that is John Watson.

On pedestals in the center of the room are tall, polished trophy cups, each citing a heroic act performed by Dr. Watson. _Shooting the cabbie. Fighting the Golum. Jumping on Moriarty in a semtex vest. Leaping into the Thames in pursuit of a suspect. Hijacking a bus in Leicester Square to catch a criminal._ The rows go on and on at length. There are so many, he can scarcely count.

Besides the trophies, there are polished plaques on the walls. Each _Brilliant, Amazing, Incredible_ that John Watson has ever uttered to Sherlock Holmes is commemorated here, etched in shining gold that glistens when it is polished (which he does, fastidiously, once every few weeks). There are portraits, too, painted in rich, tantalizing oils in grand golden frames: John's eyes twinkling when Sherlock said something clever. John's smile when Sherlock gave him a rare compliment. John's hand in Sherlock's as they ran from danger.

Sherlock Holmes loves the Trophy Room.

But that is not his destination tonight. Instead, he walks a little further down the hall, to a door that looks identical to the one at 221B. Here, behind this door, is an exact replica of their flat. And in that flat, playing on an endless loop, is every graphic sexual encounter that he and John Watson ever shared.

There are the usual array of “firsts.” First kiss (on the sofa, on an idle Tuesday night, watching crap telly. Much to Sherlock’s delight, it had quickly devolved into a frantic session of rather satisfying dry humping), first hand job (in the kitchen against the fridge, following a 12-minute screaming row about the contents of said fridge. John had leaned in and for one dizzying moment Sherlock actually thought he was going to hit him, but John, ever the surprise, had simply reached for his belt buckle), first blow job (in the shower, after rinsing off the filth of the Thames accumulated during the incident for which John had received the trophy in the room next door), first penetration (disappointingly, in Sherlock’s bed, missionary style. Upon learning Sherlock had no experience with this particular act, John had insisted they do it “properly”—which evidently meant on a flat surface, with plenty of lube, and far more verbal consent than Sherlock deemed wholly necessary). 

The best stuff came after, on every surface in the flat: the kitchen table! John’s chair! Sherlock’s chair! The sitting room floor! And that exquisite time John had taken him over the back of the sofa, with hardly any preparation (just as Sherlock had always asked him to), and the pain and pleasure had mixed so deliciously he’d sworn he blacked out as he came.

He could spend years roaming these rooms; a silent voyeur to his own carnal indulgences.

By the time Sherlock emerges from his Palace, night as fallen. He feels jittery, and realizes he's gone longer without a fix than he intended to. He swears to himself, remembering the empty vial next to him.

He checks his mobile. Two texts from Janine.

_Free tonight? ;-) -J_

_I'm out at 9.- J_

He replies quickly.

_Working a case tonight, but you're free to stay over. I'll be home early in the morning, would love to see you before you head out to work. xx -SH_

Next, he taps up a curt text to his dealer, throws on some sweatpants, and thunders down the stairs.

His dealer's place is even more depressing at night than he remembers it being. He has every intention of just making a buy and leaving, maybe spend a few hours walking the city like he used to. But his dealer convinces him to stay and test the product out. Just this once, he tells himself. He's shown to a mattress upstairs, and moments later, he's gone.

He dreams of John. Not his Mind-Palace-Trophy-Room John, or his smutty-porn-stash John, but of quiet-Sunday-morning John, warm and pliant and sweet, with all that strength and steel hidden underneath. Perhaps he'll build an addition to his Mind Palace wing, Sherlock thinks, the colors inside his eyelids blending and pulsing beautifully. The world around Sherlock spins and dissolves.

He closes his eyes, and lets go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely encouragement! It was intimidating posting for the first time, but your kind words made all the difference. Hope you enjoy the update...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two of them against the rest of the world.

III. John

They've been back from their honeymoon for ten days, and they're having a row about a sofa when she says it. 

Specifically, the row is over whether John's grotty sofa from his university days (that previously resided in Stamford's attic until his wife threatened to divorce him if he didn't get rid of it) has any business being relocated to John and Mary's pleasant terraced house in the suburbs. It was Mary's house, originally, and John had moved into it without question a few months prior to their engagement. Anything to get him out of the sterile flat a block from the surgery that he'd taken up in after Sherlock's death (thanks to a generous influx in his bank account, courtesy of Mycroft, he'd presumed).

But now he and Mary are married, and it's THEIR terraced house that he's living in, and for the life of him John Watson cannot figure out why he shouldn't be able to keep his grotty sofa in the spare bedroom upstairs. As they argue, he realizes the futility of it all--he's not a sentimental person, so why does keeping the sofa feel so damn IMPORTANT? But he's dug his heels in now, and he's not a man to back down quietly.

"But WHY do you even need it?" Mary is insisting. "We've got a perfectly good sofa downstairs!"

"I just don't understand why I can't have ONE THING from my past that I don't need to explain to you." The words feel sharp in his mouth as he says them.

"Fine," Mary retorts, eyes blazing. "You can have one. The sofa from uni, or the fact you used to fuck Sherlock Holmes. Your choice."

He feels as though he's been dropped in a pool of ice water. The air rushes from his lungs all at once, leaving him with a compressed, trapped feeling. He can't see. He can't hear. Everything is frozen in that single, crystal moment.

He should have seen it coming, he thinks later. The accusation had been percolating around the edges of their conversations for weeks, as Sherlock had thrown himself into wedding planning, and as John found Sherlock's name spilling out of his mouth again and again, just like old times, even on his honeymoon ("This street map is so complicated, it'd take Sherlock bloody Holmes to decipher it!" "One time when we went to Cornwall, Sherlock got a sunburn so bad he refused to go outside for a week and declared war on the sun!").

It's not exactly the first time she's inquired about it, though it is certainly the most direct. In the beginning, when his relationship with her was new, Mary politely tiptoed around the subject. Though she never asked straight-out, she gently murmured vague affirmations that she would always listen if he ever needed to talk about it. He had assured her, time and time again, that Sherlock was simply his best friend. He just missed his best friend. And she had let it be.

And yet here they were, eighteen months and one wedding later, in the middle of the sitting room in their terraced house in Watford, and Mary Morstan--Mary _Watson_ \-- has just finally said it out and out.

John inhales. He exhales. He inhales again. "I'm not gay."

"For Christ's sake, John. By the time we got married, we'd been in a physically and emotionally satisfying relationship for the better part of a year. Believe me, if you were gay, I'd have caught on by then. But I'm not dense. I've noticed that Sherlock Holmes is the exception to a lot of things for a lot of people."

John just stares.

Mary takes a measured breath. Her demeanor has changed entirely; the fire is gone from her eyes, replaced with a soft earnestness that John resents. She hesitates, and then soldiers on.

"I'm not saying you're gay. I'm saying you need to be honest. If not for yourself, at least for me. It was different back then, back when he was just a ghost. I was willing to overlook it, because we're all entitled to our own past. But he's not a ghost anymore, John. He's here, flesh and blood, in the present. And knowing him--and you-- he's going to be a part of our lives for the foreseeable future. So I am asking you, John. To be honest. For me. Just this once, and I will never breathe a word of it again. I am asking you now, without judgement or agenda: Before he died, were you sleeping with Sherlock?"

Everything feels eerily still. John can see the dust swirling in the hazy light from the street lamp that slants in through the window. Everything else is frozen.

"Yes." The word hangs in the air like a puff of vapor on a freezing morning. Then all at once, the ice seems to melt, replaced by a surging heat. It pulses through his heart, his veins, his head, and swells up as hot, wet tears in his eyes. They're spilling down his cheeks before he has time to register what's happening.

Mary is at his side in an instant. She takes his hand. "It's alright," she whispers. "It's alright. What's wrong?"

He shakes his head. He can't understand why this is happening, why he is reacting this way. How could this be what it has become, tears in the sitting room in his lovely Watford home on an unassuming Wednesday evening?

"I've never said it before. Ever. To anyone. It was just something he and I shared. The two of us against the rest of world."

Mary squeezes his hand. "It can't have been easy."

"No," he says simply. "It wasn't." He doesn't have the words to explain what it _was_ : that loving Sherlock Holmes had been simultaneously the hardest and easiest and worst and best and craziest and most natural thing he had ever done in his life.

He exhales, trying to draw some semblance of rhythm back to his breath. "You aren't angry?"

She pauses. "No, not angry, exactly. I'm hurt you wouldn't tell me. I'm hurt it had to happen this way. But now I know, and I feel we're stronger for it. I love you, John Watson. This won't change that."

John nods. Mary smiles. "I guess this means you get to keep the sofa, then."

John laughs, but even to him it sounds hollow. They go about the rest of the evening in polite silence. John knows that Mary has more questions, but he's confident she won't ask them now. Or maybe ever.

In bed that night, he lies beside her, trying to fall asleep. He knows that he should feel better; the weight of a secret like that should have been heavy, dragging him down. The weight was now displaced; shouldn't he feel free?

But instead, he feels empty. And he realizes, as he lies there in the dark, that it's because that secret was the one thing he still shared with Sherlock and Sherlock alone. It was special because it was theirs, and no one else in the world could touch it. Their secret had been precious and unique. But like a balloon on a string, he had let it go.

There was nothing for it now, he supposes. Besides, this was as it should be. He and Mary. Against the rest of the world. Tomorrow it will feel better, he tells himself. It will feel right.

That night he dreams of guns and death and Sherlock's blazing jade-green eyes. _"Oh God, yes."_

Then the next morning, Kate Whitney is at the door, and her son Isaac is missing again, and it all spirals out of control so fast that John never knew what hit him. But some nights, instead of dreaming of guns and death and jade-green eyes, he dreams of a white balloon, its string dangling just out of reach. On extremely rare and lucky nights, his fingertips grasp the string and he pulls the balloon close to his chest and squeezes, the exhilaration pounding in his veins. He wakes the instant before it pops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this fic. I've got a couple more ideas for this 'verse, so there's more to come! Thanks again for your encouragement and kind words to this rookie.

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever fic. Taking the plunge. Comments appreciated!


End file.
